


Ode to the Moth in the Flame

by pandafarts



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: All the guilt, F/M, FullMetal Alchemist - Freeform, My own headcanons, Royai - Freeform, back scarring fic, my cat is judging me, roy is vulnerable af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandafarts/pseuds/pandafarts
Summary: It was horrific, and he himself was the master of horror. How dare he burn down churches, murder the innocents of Ishval, and then feel this way? And about this woman, who had watched with dead eyes as he brought hell on earth to the peaceful citizens?  The woman who was here, had killed just as many, because of ideals he followed with a naive heart and a gullible hope?It is this ideal, this symbol, that he has now burned. Under his careful, tentative touch, protected by his naive heart, she burned.





	

It was horrific, and he himself was the master of horror. How dare he burn down churches, murder the innocents of Ishval, and then feel this way? And about this woman, who had watched with dead eyes as he brought hell on earth to the peaceful citizens? The woman who was here, had killed just as many, because of ideals he followed with a naive heart and a gullible hope? Ideals he fed to her.

It is this ideal, this symbol, that he has now burned. He wishes the array had been on paper. But no, it was stitched ink on the tender flesh of his Master's daughter, her flesh which should only know pleasure. Not just sexual, although he could not deny he had those urges for the woman currently vomiting in his dorm room lavitory.

She deserved the chill of the water of the lake they used to skinny dip in when her father wasn't watching. Before either cared that they were a male and a female. Back when they'd lie in the tall grass, near the patch of strawberries that never grew because the soil had too much clay. They would lay naked like infants, and with an equally infantile state of mind talk about changing the world, goosebumps as they dried in the night breeze.

She was partially clothed now. The fine slender muscles in her broad shoulders, and her arms did little for him. The arch of hips, the swell of her breasts, the pale nipples, did nothing at all to arouse him. It showcased his brutatlity, the beauty contrasted horribly with the burns on her back, covering the tattoos just right, to hide Master's research.

Brilliant. Horrible. Terrible. Astounding reasearch.  
Flame alchemy. And how fitting for the only Flame Alchemist to destroy the array and this the skin of the women he cared for the most. She retched, sick from fever, and reached with him with shaking hands. She struggled to gaze at him, with unfocused eyes. 

"Thank you."  
And then she fainted.

Panic set in like the drug they give you at the dentist. Slowly, numbing, but sharp like a needle in your gums.  
Her fever, was far too high.

He did what he had never done for one of his victims. He drew a bath. He pulled her partially clothed, limp body in with him. Slacks and white shirt, which he had scrubbed and washed obsessively before the "operation" getting soaked to the gills.

Here he was. His kill count was almost as high as Kimbley's. His childhood friend, his family, his comrade... the woman he loved, limp from fever, weak from injury. 

She wanted to follow him. And she went to the depths of hell, and dared to thank him.

She stirs, jerkily, like a moth realizing that fire is nearby. She presses closer, hums. Feverish as a human can be, she kisses him on the corner of the mouth.

"I'm free" She says, using the voice she used to use when they lay in the tall grass naked as children, then promptly falls asleep.  
The water grows cold, her body cools to a normal temperature, and the guilt rages in the Flame's soul.  
She is a moth following a flame and ending up burned, wings torn from bumping against the sides of the lamp.  
And here he is, bastard that he is, and all he can taste is the bathwater on her mouth


End file.
